


the magic of your sighs

by louciferish



Category: The Mighty Boosh RPF
Genre: Angst, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Not Beta Read, Record Store Day, modern era Noelian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28295871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louciferish/pseuds/louciferish
Summary: The thing is…They’ve been made up for ages, okay? They get along fine, great, same as ever when they get the chance. It takes a few minutes, at most, and then they’re back on old patterns, finishing each other’s sentences, orbiting one another like a pair of shattered stars unaware there’s a wider universe beckoning all around them.The thing is, that’s the problem.
Relationships: Julian Barratt/Noel Fielding
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14





	the magic of your sighs

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there. Same anon who wrote [the silver moon and the evening tide](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27803887) back again, this time to hurt you real bad (maybe)
> 
> Because I watched a gif of Noel asking Julian, "Are we still the Mighty Boosh?" on Record Store Day and I needed to pour out a whole bucket of feelings. In the process, I may have watched those videos frame by frame, looking at every single second of body language.
> 
> At the same time, I'm taking some liberties with timing and how filming things works, among other things. That's how fic is sometimes, I guess.

Noel’s agent drops the news in at the end of a long call, casual, as if it’s nothing, which is what she always does with the big stuff, the stuff she knows he’ll be excited about.They’ve spent twenty minutes catching up on their lives and another twenty talking business already -- Bake Off and charity gigs, speaking opportunities and gallery shows. Most of the chat is casual these days, and Noel has the phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear, making a cup of tea as they talk. 

The clink of spoon on ceramic nearly drowns out her voice when she says, “Oh, and Record Store Day wants you as ambassadors for the next event. You and Julian, that is. The Boosh.”

His spoon slips from abruptly weak fingers, clattering against the edge of the mug. “Sorry, what?” But he did hear her. He can’t truly pretend he didn’t, and she doesn’t let him try. 

“It’s a few months off, yet, but they contacted me, and I told them I’d ask.”

“Yeah,” Noel says reflexively. “Yeah, sure. Of course.” His fingers are working properly again. He flexes them a few times to be sure before he dares to pick up the spoon, drops it in the sink, then cups his mug with both hands and brings it to his lips. He always has to take a few sips while it’s still boiling hot or he’ll forget it completely, end up mixing it up with the paint water again and dumping everything to be safe. “I’ll do it if Julian will. Good luck on that one, though. You’ll have your hands full trying to even get him on the phone.”

“I already called Julian.” His agent’s voice takes a smug twist. “He’s said yes.”

“Oh.” 

“Still interested?”

“‘course.” Noel’s not thinking before he speaks anymore. His mind has flatlined. His lips are moving of their own accord. He looks down at the kitchen counter and is vaguely pleased to see he’s had the presence of mind to set his tea down, because he’d sort of expected to find it splashed across the kitchen tile, decorated with shards of white ceramic. 

“Great. I’ll send you the details later on when I get them.”

There’s more pleasantries after that, goodbyes and thank yous. Noel does them by rote, his knuckles white where he holds himself up on the kitchen counter. 

-

They never had any sort of conversation about what they’d say when they were inevitably asked about one another, but before they were Noel and Julian they were noelandjulian, and so it seems a fitting evolution that they’ve fallen into the same pattern of responses, their minds still bouncing along the same melodic wavelength.

“We live on the same street still.”

“I see him around all the time, actually.”

“Of course, I’d like to do something together again, maybe.”

“I’m always open to it.”

“We’ve talked about it.”

Most of it’s an exaggeration, where it’s not an outright lie.

They do see one another on the street, in passing. It happens perhaps once a month, occasionally twice. There’s a smile (Noel) and a nod (Julian), a moment when their eyes collide and the entire street flashes like lightning striking a solitary tree in the darkness. Then, Julian turns his head, or Noel ducks under the brim of his hat, and it’s all black again, all dark and quiet. 

It’s been years of that. Years since they stood together, shoulders brushing, and shared a name along with a gig. Years since they had a conversation beyond,

“Hullo.”

“All right?”

“How’s the kids?”

“Saw you on that thing, you know. It was good. You look good.” 

Passing words in a shopping aisle, glances exchanged among the Weetabix. 

Sometimes, with the right interviewer, on the right day, the clouds part, and a bit of truth slips free.

“I wouldn’t be who I am without him.”

“I’ve been trying to write, but everything is easier with a second person to bounce off. I keep accidentally writing a double act every time.”

Now, knowing that Julian has said _yes_ to something, Noel finds himself scanning the sidewalk each time he steps outside to hail a cab or walk down to his favorite secondhand shops. The London smog is loaded with potential, and he sweeps the area for one head a bit higher than the others, brown hair streaked now with heavy grey. 

Before, they’d always collided on accident, a simple coincidence of inevitable proximity. But now that Noel is watching for it, trying for it, the universe pulls it from his fingers. _You can’t catch lightning in a bottle_. People always say that, but Noel and Julian bottled and sold lightning for years, so he knows it’s only a matter of striking in the right moment.

He finds himself with his phone in hand more often than he’d like to admit, Julian’s contact information open and waiting, but that’s not the same. He can’t force it. If, when his phone rings, he picks it up quicker than usual these days, well, there’s no one around to notice that but Lliana. 

-

The thing is…

They’ve been made up for ages, okay? They get along fine, great, same as ever when they get the chance. It takes a few minutes, at most, and then they’re back on old patterns, finishing each other’s sentences, orbiting one another like a pair of shattered stars unaware there’s a wider universe beckoning all around them.

The thing is, that’s the problem. 

For two years, they’d been mostly apart after the last tour ended, on a break, learning to be separate people like they clearly needed to be to avoid tearing one another into shreds. Julian was busy with his kids. Noel was busy with his art. There’d been a few texts, a couple conversations, a bit of an idea like _Wouldn’t it be funny if…?_

It was a ten second gag. It didn’t need rehearsing, because Julian already knew the moves. They hadn’t seen each other in months, and it should have been a brief and awkward encounter. They were testing the waters, barely dipping their toes in one another’s space, and yet, somehow, it still ended up--

 _Noel’s head hit the dressing room mirror, but he barely felt the throb of it. He was occupied with sweaty palms scrabbling for purchase, red dress bunched up around his hips, lips and teeth against his and a rhythm that matched the bass of the pop song playing on stage. Voices outside the door and Julian murmuring, “Shhh. Shhh.” with the beat of their movement until Noel wanted to scream._

But that was a fluke. Insane. They’d thought they had enough distance, enough time apart to settle into their own skins, but clearly they’d cut it too close. 

A couple more years was what they needed. A little more time. When the opportunity came up to do the festival in Los Angeles, it was an obvious yes, and that had worked. Their energy was good. The album stuff, that was working too, at first, and it seemed like maybe they’d gotten it right. Maybe this time they were old enough, smart enough. They’d left behind other bad habits, other addictions, and so they could move past--

_The other guys looked up with ready smiles when Noel slipped back into the studio. He’d cracked a joke about traffic cones and high heels, and they’d almost believed him until Julian crept through the door behind him, hair tousled, the tail of his plaid shirt waving like a flag through his undone flies. Noel had coughed, given it a pointed look and tried to hide his laughter, but weary eyes around the room told him they weren’t fooling anyone._

It’s been five years since that, now. Five years since Julian didn’t turn up to the studio for the next session. Five years since a text thread that started, _We can’t keep doing this_ and ended with, _I’m not sure there will ever be enough time_.

So Noel takes his phone out of his pocket between filming sessions on his new project, thumbs over the messenger app, checks his recents, then tucks it away again. Again and again, until the days tick by and it’s April 9th, a Tuesday, and it’s close _enough_.

 _see you thursday x x x x_ he types, and then he deletes two of the x’s before sending

He’d gotten a new phone two years ago. His old message history hadn’t transferred that time. The new text sits, alone, beneath Julian’s name.

It stays that way.

-

When Noel arrives at the record shop for filming, Julian is already there. He’s got his back turned to the street, peering in the plate glass window like a broke teenager salivating in front of a chippy. After weeks of searching the neighborhood for him, the sight of his familiar lines and tousled hair slams into Noel. Julian’s had that red plaid scarf for so long, it’s nearly as old as their friendship. There’s a dizzying twist in Noel’s stomach when 2019 overlays itself with 1999, and then part of the crew says, “Ah, here he is!” and Julian turns.

It’s definitely not 1999 anymore, but Noel still feels like he’s dizzy on champagne when Julian gives him that slight, hesitant smile. “Hullo.”

“Hi.” Noel steps in, rocks back and forth in his heeled booties and plucks at the hem of his shirt. His jeans are too tight for his hands to fit in the pockets. A production assistant swoops in, offers them both coffee, and Noel says yes just to have something to do with his hands, an excuse to be quiet, waiting. 

The crew buzzes with life around them, readying cameras and putting finishing touches on the inside of the shop, mostly ignoring their two stars, and Noel and Julian simply take their coffees and pay attention, stepping and twisting out of production’s way. 

Somehow, in the ebb and flow of avoidance, they end up side by side. Noel clutches his paper cup, ducks his head to hide his eyes beneath the brim of his cowboy hat. “How’s the family?”

“Good, good.” Julian’s not looking at him anyway. “How’s the baby?”

“Brilliant,” Noel gushes. “Getting bigger.”

“Talking yet?”

“A bit.”

“Alright,” one of the crew takes charge, steps in and points them toward the door. “We want to get a few shots of you just walking around inside first, right? Browse, act natural. Then we’ll record some intros and stuff. No script. Shouldn’t take too long, and then you’re both free to go.”

Noel nods, feels the shift in heat and air as Julian does the same. There’s half a dozen hot camera lights pointing at them from every direction, and that’s all the warning they get before someone shouts, “Action!”

Afterward, Noel can’t remember half of what was said. His coffee cup might as well be filled with vodka, though he hasn’t sipped enough of it to make the bubbling in his blood make sense even. The moment they step through the shop doors, it’s like falling into the sea. Julian is right there, barely enough room between their bodies for air to pass at any time, and even when Noel remembers himself, leans back or edges away, he feels Julian twisting back into the space. 

The crew directs them to a pair of stools, and they perch like wild, startled birds. Julian’s hair is ruffled in all directions from wind and his own nervous hands scrunching it. Noel’s leg bounces and sways when he talks, ankle bumping again Julian’s. They both squirm, trying to settle into a comfortable position as the cameras adjust, and then Julian’s stool groans, edging closer, and Noel feels one of Julian’s huge hands come to rest on the small of his back.

It’s not fair. He’s wearing layers today. The leather jacket is expensive, thick. He can feel the pressure of Julian’s hand, but not the heat. The nervous sweep of his thumb is familiar and strange all at once. It’s cheating, Julian reaching for him so easily right before the camera’s come on and the director signals for them to start talking. They’re not in sync yet, still in that early shy space, and Julian shouldn’t be able to do this to him, but Noel has a lot of practice talking over this fizzing in his spine. 

He jumps in when the director waves again, dragging his eyes off Julian’s face long enough to say, “Hi, we’re the Mighty Boosh.” He turns back to Julian and Julian turns toward him. For the first time since they arrived, their eyes truly meet. The small space between them is a chasm. 

Julian’s hand spasms, clutching the hem of his jacket. “Hi,” he says to the camera, like he’s shy of _it_ instead of Noel, like he’s not a proper actor with dramatic roles these days.

Well, if Julian can cheat, then Noel can too. He never looks away, only leans in a little and pastes on a grin like he’s joking as he asks, “ _Are_ we the Mighty Boosh?” 

And it is a joke, in a way, something they can pass off as a sort of casual surrealism, but it’s also very much a real question. It’s the question Noel’s been wanting to ask for five years, but hasn’t been able to when they’re nothing more than two carts dancing around each other at the Tesco’s. That he’s doing this now, in front of a camera, is deliberate as well.

He wants to know what Julian will say, but he needs the insurance of the camera to guarantee it won’t be too bad. Julian is too self-conscious to make a scene, not here.

Noel’s not sure what answer he expects, but it’s not the awkward, almost surprised way that Julian says, “Well, yeah. We still are, yeah.” For a second, it’s so genuine that Noel forgets the cameras. He stares, unashamed, until Julian turns to look at him again, and then they both have to duck their heads, look away, and smile.

The rest is comparatively easy. Their words overlap along with their shoulders, slipping into a shared language until, even when Julian reclaims his hand from Noel’s waist, they feel like they’re playing the same melody. They’re two bodies zipped into a single sleeping bag.

It’s over too quickly. The director was right about that -- it’s fast, and then they’re done, signing a few albums for crew and the store’s staff before they go, back to making cautious small talk with two different groups of strangers. 

Things flip sideways again when it’s Julian who leans in close as Noel edges toward the door, nods outside and asks, “Do you want to grab a drink?” like it’s not eight in the bloody morning. 

And it’s _Noel_ who mumbles back, “Can’t today. The baby--” But of course Julian understands that. He nods, and then he reaches out for a hug that feels like it’s ten years overdue instead of five, his arm firm around Noel’s waist, and Noel can smell his smokey aftershave and the ghost of a hundred coffee shops sleeping in his wool scarf. 

He says, “We’ll talk later,” even though he knows it may not be true, and steps outside. There’s a car waiting for him already, the assistant from earlier holding the door and a fresh coffee, and Noel has to juggle the cup as he slides into the plush back seat, fumbling for the phone he can feel buzzing in his jacket pocket with his free hand. 

His poor text from Tuesday isn’t alone anymore. _We are,_ the message says. _Yeah._

As the cabbie pulls out into the road, Noel stares down at his phone screen and tries to guess the next line in the script.


End file.
